


Jaded

by blameitonmyadd



Category: Benedict Cumberbatch - Fandom, British Actor RPF
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-06
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-07 18:04:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1908606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blameitonmyadd/pseuds/blameitonmyadd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A love story, starting from the middle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Will You Do the Fandango?

**June 2012**

There comes a time, at the end of every relationship – for those of us who cling to the idea that _everything happens for a reason_ – where one question needles at us through the sleepless nights, through the chick-flick marathons, through the anger, through the regret, through the sadness: what was the point? And after weeks, or months, depending on the extent of the heartbreak, we chalk it up to a “learning experience” – the verbal equivalent of shrugging our shoulders and moving on, despite the fact that we really have no fucking clue. Eventually, we start a new relationship – if we’re lucky or stupid or both – and when it all ends, the cycle continues; one long string of relationships held firmly in the ‘what-the-fuck-was-the-point’ category.

And then, one day, it hits us. The thought could come like lightning as you flip past yet another romantic comedy on television, or as you spend another Friday night not even bothering to leave your flat, or as you stare into the depths of a quarter-drunk bottle of your favorite poison.

In my case, it was as I stood on my balcony in the early morning hours – third cigarette of the hour, smoked almost down to the filter, hanging limply in my fingers – watching a couple on the street below. The man, obviously dressed for work in his crisp blue suit and tie, pulled the woman to him, kissing her fiercely before ushering her into a waiting cab. Most people might witness a truly film-worthy kiss like that and drown in their own jealousy. But, I’m not most people; and as the acrid stench of burning filter filled my nose, I thought: _You poor bastards...blissfully unaware of what’s around the corner._

I stubbed my cigarette out in the already overflowing ashtray, one word bouncing around my mind: jaded.

That epiphany – it’s what brings me to where I am now; where, even a full six months after _him_ , the most difficult learning experience of all, I’m stuck on that niggling question again. Because, _don’t you see_? It’s not enough to know I’m jaded; I can’t be armed with this truth and do nothing to change it. And somehow, in my mind, the solution lies in finding a concrete answer to that question.

I may not know the why – yet. But, I do know one thing: Bohemian Rhapsody. That’s how I went and got my heart shattered to pieces.

Maybe I should start at the beginning.

**

**January 2009**

I’ve never done karaoke in my life; for good reason, too. Anyone who has known me for more than a minute will tell you that my sense of humor is largely self-deprecating. It is not, though, with any hint of humor or false modesty that I tell you: I cannot sing to save my life.

Once, when I was fifteen, my father almost broke the bathroom door down. I was singing “I Will Always Love You”, the Whitney Houston version, – admittedly a risky endeavor, even for those more vocally gifted – in the shower, minding my own business and rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when I heard a frantic pounding on the door and my father’s panicked shouting on the other side. I thought the house was on fire; he thought I was being strangled to death in our bathroom.

My showers have been strictly non-musical since.

After that charming anecdote, I think you’ll share in the disbelief – and let’s be honest, sheer terror – I feel upon finding myself stood sandwiched between the two treacherous bastards that I call friends in the smack-dab middle of a stage. On karaoke night. With a microphone in my hand. Preparing to massacre Bohemian Rhapsody. In front of people – actual, real people, with functioning ears. God help them.

I see the first lyrics pop onto the screen and turn to my left, fully intending to exit the stage completely. Nate, treacherous bastard number one, blocks my way and firmly grasps my upper arm, turning me to face the audience with a shake of his head. I turn to my right, toward Steph – treacherous bastard number two – and catch her eye, silently pleading for her to let me leave the stage. She grasps my other arm and smiles her toothy smile, still singing, and suddenly I feel like I’m being marched to the guillotine.

The song continues, and I stand frozen in place, not uttering a single sound. Nate bumps my shoulder with his, still grasping my arm, and I know I have two choices: stand here like an idiot, or sing and sound like an idiot. So I squeeze my eyes shut, and take a deep breath. And even though I sound like a badly wounded animal, I soldier through the song, finally opening my eyes as the last awful note hangs in the air.

I try to smile at the few visible faces in the crowd, but have a feeling I only look faintly nauseated. “I’m going to fucking kill both of you,” I hiss as I rip my arms from their slackened grips and storm off the stage.

“I barely made it through,” Steph is half a step behind me, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. “That was bloody awful.”

“Yes, thank you Stephanie. I hadn’t realized,” I come to a halt as we reach the bar. “I need a shot or three.”

“Where’s Nate?” Steph turns to scan the pub, leaning against the bar on her elbows. “Typical,” she laughs and tips her head to indicate a place to my right.

Nate is chatting animatedly with a tall, thin man with a wave of blonde hair and bright blue eyes. “We’ll not be seeing him the rest of the night,” I turn back to the bar and catch the barman’s eye.

“He’s twenty, at most,” Steph observes, still watching Nate and the man with interest. “The man does have a type.” She turns to smile at me and uses her elbows to push herself into a full standing position. “I need the loo. I nearly pissed myself laughing when you were singing.”

“Careful, I know where you live,” I laugh and give her a shove. She winks and walks off, disappearing in the crowd of people.

The barkeep finally makes his way over, and I order two shots – whiskey. I look back to Nate as I wait for the drinks, laughing and shaking my head as he looks up and catches my eye, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively before turning his attention back to the man. “No queue for the loo?” I ask as I feel a presence beside me, and turn, expecting to meet Steph’s bright brown eyes – not the piercing blue-green set looking back at me.

“I’ve no idea, I haven’t been,” he says in a deep baritone, and smiles, wrinkles forming around those brilliant eyes.

“You’re not my friend,” I laugh in embarrassment and curse inwardly. The most attractive man I’ve met in months and the first sentence out of my mouth included the word ‘loo’.

“Not yet,” he chuckles and winks, holding out his hand. “Benedict.”

“Nola,” I say, shaking his hand.

He nods toward the two shots just placed in front of me. “Liquid courage for another song?”

I groan and down one of the shots, shuddering as the liquid burns down my throat. “Christ, you witnessed that disaster? My apologies if your ears bled any.”

“They only bled a bit,” he grins and rakes his teeth across his bottom lip. “It was entertaining.”

“That’s one way to put it,” I laugh and pick up the second glass, steeling myself for the burn before tossing it back. “All the hard liquor on the planet wouldn’t convince me to go up there again.”

I’ve only known him for minutes, but I can read the determination in his face. “Something convinced you to go up there once.”

“I was physically forced into it by my _former_ friends.”

“She’s a bit dramatic. Don’t listen to a word she says.” We both turn, startled, as Steph reappears, pointing a thumb towards me and rolling her eyes in Benedict’s direction. “Hello. Stephanie,” she says, holding out a hand to Benedict.

“Benedict,” he takes her hand. “Queue for the loo?” He asks, flashing me an impish grin.

“I feel I’ve missed something,” Steph raises an eyebrow at me, and I smile. Her eyes fall to the two empty glasses. “You’ve already done two!”

“I told you I needed them.”

“Drink up, love. I see a solo in your near future.”

“You can’t keep me on that stage alone, and Nate is otherwise occupied,” I point out smugly, completely confident that my feet won’t grace the stage floor for a second time.

“Stephanie,” Benedict says, though his eyes are on me. “I have a duet in mind, but no partner,” he shifts his gaze to Steph.

She grins at him like a Cheshire cat. “I know just the girl.”

“Shots?” Benedict asks, but he’s already waving over the bartender.

Three hours later, minutes after I throw back shot number _fuck-if-I-know_ , I again find myself center stage, Kim Weston to Benedict’s Marvin Gaye. He pulls an overly-dramatic panicked face at me and squeezes my hand as the music starts. The song passes quickly in my alcohol-haze, and I laugh so hard at his dancing that I’m only vaguely aware of other people in the room.

I stumble along next to him as we make our way towards the bar and a laughing Stephanie. I drunkenly wonder if it was the alcohol or the duet partner that made being on that stage easier the second time around.

Stephanie says something that I don’t hear before she’s gone, heading towards the toilet. Benedict leans down, and his mouth is so close to my ear that I can feel his lips move with his words. “I knew I could get you back up there.”

In that moment, two thoughts burst through the cloud of whiskey fogging my brain: meeting this man could either be the best thing to happen to me, or the worst. And he still hadn’t let go of my hand.


	2. We're All Sensitive People

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll preface this by saying a few things to anybody that might read this thing. 1.) I've never written anything like the scene in this before, so I'm just really hoping it's not terrible and that you don't judge me too harshly. 2.) I didn't read over this before I posted so there might be some mistakes..

**February 2009**

Valentine’s Day, for the record, has never been my favorite holiday. I prefer to ignore the day completely – pretend it doesn’t exist. There’s no disappointment if there aren’t any expectations. That was before there was a Benedict in my life.

He called me, the afternoon after Karaoke night, and asked me to dinner the next evening. It was the most _memorable_ first date I’ve ever been on – that’s the only word I can use to describe it.

He was twenty minutes late to pick me up. I’m chronically late myself, so it didn’t bother me. Nate happened to be over. I say ‘happened’ but what I really mean is he’s my fashion advisor. Steph does hair. Anyway, that was the first time Ben met Nate. They got along so well, you would think they had known each other for years. We stayed at the flat for two hours, just talking, until I reminded Ben that we were supposed to be on a date. I wasn’t upset, mind – I loved that he got on so well with my friends. But, I _was_ hungry.

We went to a hole-in-the-wall Italian restaurant that neither of us had been to before. If you asked Ben today, he would tell you that was poor judgment on his part – never take a date somewhere you haven’t been.

The thing about hole-in-the-wall restaurants is they’re usually incredible. This one was not. The server was horrible – a rude little wench with bleach blonde hair and too much eye makeup that flirted with Ben the entire time, and I have my suspicions about the wine she _accidentally_ spilled down the front of my dress. The food was awful. I could tell Ben was upset about his choice of restaurant, so I choked it down anyway. That was poor judgment on my part, in hindsight.

Ben was lovely – sweet, funny, intelligent. And my _God_ , that man can talk. We sat there, in that terrible restaurant, for hours – and I don’t think either of us minded that the rude wench interrupted us every few minutes. He was in the middle of telling me about an experience in South Africa when I started to feel nauseous. At first, I thought it was some weird visceral response.

It wasn’t.

He didn’t kiss me that night. Mainly because, as we stood at the door to my flat and his lips were getting closer and closer to mine, my nausea – which had been steadily building since we left the restaurant – became unbearable, and as the bile burned a path up my esophagus, I gagged and did the only thing I had time to do. I pushed him away and leaned as far as I could to the side. The night was silent but for his surprised gasp and a sickening splash on the pavement, and everything was suddenly moving in slow-motion as I watched the sick splatter onto the leg of his trousers.

He told me –on our second date, a week later – that he was worried I vomited because he was going to kiss me, and he only realized it was food poisoning when he got ill as well. I told him I was sure I would never hear from him again, and I asked if he kept the trousers. He laughed and then his mouth was on mine and one hand was tangled in my hair and the other was squeezing my hip and I forgot how to breathe and that… _that_ was the best first kiss I’ve ever had.

Back to Valentine’s Day – today, actually. Friday. I didn’t have any expectations for today, as I’ve said. Ben hadn’t even mentioned it. Which is why, when I rounded the last corner on the way to my desk at work this morning, I was pleasantly surprised. A beautiful arrangement of flowers was centered on the desk – not roses, he knows I don’t like them. Gerbera daisies – colorful and gorgeous and perfect. The card was my favorite part:

_Two can make just any place seem just like bein’ home. XX Marvin_

I called to thank him and he told me he had a surprise for me and to be at his flat at 6:30.

So, naturally, it’s seven and I’m just arriving. I press the buzzer, and as I’m waiting to be let in, I think of a joke I once heard: _I’ve told you I’d be ready in five minutes, so stop calling me every half hour._ I’m laughing as Ben opens the door, and he looks at me as if he’s afraid I’ve gone unhinged.

“What’s got you so amused?” he asks as he ushers me in, giving me a short peck on the lips as I walk past him.

 “My – _our_ – chronic lateness,” I say as I let him help me with my coat. “Why is it so dark in here? Trying to save on your energy bi—“The last word dies on my lips as I finally fully take in the scene in front of me. He’s moved all the furniture back and pushed it against the walls, making enough room in the middle of the cozy living area to spread a large red and white checkered blanket on the floor, directly in front of the softly glowing fireplace. A metal bucket set in the middle of the blanket houses a bottle of what is presumably wine, owing to the wine glasses placed next to it.

I turn to gape at Ben beside me and I’m briefly amazed at his ability to look both sheepish and proud of himself. “Surprise,” he says and gives me a smile that temporarily stops my heart.

“Oh, Ben,” I place a hand over my heart – I think mostly to keep it inside my chest, because it feels as if it has suddenly grown wings. Stopping my heart in one moment and making it fly away the next – the man is trying to kill me. “I’m…touched,” I wrinkle my nose at my inability to find a better word to express how sweet this really is.

He hums low in his throat, placing a hand on the small of my back, guiding me towards the blanket. “Yes, you will be,” he raises his eyebrows suggestively.

“You _would_ ruin the moment with a sex joke,” I laugh and sit on the blanket, curling my legs to one side and tugging the hem of my dress closer to my knees.

He chuckles as he fills one of the glasses with a dark red wine, holding it out to me. “I couldn’t resist. Hold tight, I’ll be right back.”

I watch him as he moves to the kitchen, seizing the opportunity to ogle his perfect backside. I love to watch him walk, as odd as that may sound. He moves with an unbelievably easy grace for such a lanky man. I think of a quote from a movie – _I hate to see you go, but I love to watch you leave –_ and giggle out loud.

Ben looks at me quizzically over his shoulder from his spot in the kitchen, and I shake my head. I feel giddy and drunk, although my wine is mostly untouched.

He returns balancing two plates filled with a variety of appetizers. “You can’t imagine how difficult it is to find something easy to eat on the floor that _isn’t_ takeaway,” helaughs as he sets the plates on the blanket and lowers to sit.

I smile. “It looks lovely.”

“I’ve made certain it’s all cooked correctly,” he says, pointing a remote control at the stereo in the corner, and barely discernible music fills the room. “I’m rather fond of these trousers.”

I laugh, inhaling most of the wine I had been sipping. The food is delicious, once I recover from my coughing fit.

I’m at the start of my second glass of wine when I strain my ears to listen to the soft music, merely background noise moments before, as I hear a familiar _wah wah wah_ issuing from the stereo. I raise an eyebrow at Ben as I’m able to make out the lyrics. _And if you feel like I feel baby…let’s get it on._ “Are you trying to tell me something, Ben?”

“I thought I ought to keep with the ‘Marvin’ theme.”

I hum and nod thoughtfully. “What’s next? ‘Sexual Healing’?”

“Are you offering?” His voice is low and dangerous, and the firelight reflects beautifully in his eyes as he moves toward me, pushing our dishes to the side.

He takes my wine glass and sets it…somewhere. I couldn’t give a flying fuck if he had just tossed it aside, because his hand is blazing a path from my ankle to my calf and my skin is sizzling, and his teeth are nipping at my earlobe, and he smells like wine and woods and man and _sex_. And I can’t form a coherent thought because his hand is kneading my hip and his lips are on my neck, and _Jesus Christ_ I must have fallen in the fireplace because it’s suddenly eight thousand degrees in this room. A desperate moan penetrates the near silence, and I only recognize it as my own as Ben’s appreciative groan vibrates against my collarbone. Before my jumbled thoughts can catch up, my body acts of its own accord, and I’m up on my knees and his hands – those gorgeous, long-fingered hands – are on the backs of my thighs, and sweeping their way up my backside, taking my dress with them until it’s over my head and thrown to the side. And then I’m straddling him and we’re both fumbling with the buttons on his shirt, and I’m finally pushing it off his shoulders, running my hands along his biceps, and my hips are circling, grinding against the hard bulge in his trousers, and his hips are rising up and the contact is almost painful but _God it feels so good_. And then his mouth is on my breast, sucking my nipple through the lacy fabric, and his hands are working with the clasp at the back and tugging the straps down and his teeth are grazing across the other nipple, and his tongue is soothing the spot, and I grind into him harder, and my fingers are tangled in his hair, and my breath is coming out in pants because it’s _so fucking_ _hot in here_. And then he’s flipping us over, and I’m lying on my back, and I feel a cool wetness trickle its way underneath my shoulder but sod it because I’m unbuckling his belt and unbuttoning and unzipping and I’m pushing his trousers and his pants down his hips, and he’s contorting his body to kick to them off and he’s finally gloriously naked. And then his fingers are under the waistband of my knickers, and I’m lifting my hips and he’s sliding them down my legs. And suddenly his mouth is at my inner thigh, biting and licking his way to where I need that magic mouth of his the most. All the breath in my lungs comes out in a longwhoosh as he licks up my slit, and then he’s lapping at my clit and my fingers are threaded through his hair, and one long finger is inside me, and my hips buck up and my hands are clenching in his hair and he groans against my clit and the vibration nearly drives me insane.

And then my hands are moving to his shoulders, pulling him. “Oh-God-Ben-please,” I beg, and it comes out as one long word because I can’t catch my breath. And finally, he’s letting me pull him up my body, and his mouth is crashing down on mine, our tongues swirling around each other’s, and I’m wrapping my legs around his waist, pulling him closer. And he’s pushing inside of me with a groan in my ear, and then he’s pounding into me, and his thumb is rubbing frantically at my clit, and the only thought reverberating in my brain is _yes_. And I feel my muscles clenching, and the tingling in my belly, and my back is arching and the only sound that fights its way out of my throat is a strangled cry, because words are so far beyond my capability in this moment. And, with a grunt, Ben’s rhythm stutters and slows and comes to a halt. He collapses, half on top of me, breathing heavily for a moment before rolling to the side.

We stay there, side by side – panting and sweaty, both catching our breath – until Ben sits up, peering over me, and laughs.

“What’s so amusing?” I ask.

He nods at the piece of blanket on my left, and I look over. “We spilled your wine,” he says.

“That explains what I felt under my shoulder,” I say, and I turn my head back to Ben.

We look at each other and suddenly we’re both in hysterics, unable to control our laughter.


	3. Synonyms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little short...this one was hell to write, and I have no idea why.

April 2009

Today, I had a brilliant idea – a stroke of genius – a gift sent straight from the God of Excellent Ideas.

Now, on this Saturday night, sat next to Ben on the floor of my living room, staring at Steph and Nate across the low table – I realize I’ve made a terrible mistake, and my idea more likely clawed its way up from the underbelly of the Earth, sent by the Demon of Truly Awful Ideas.

Game night is underway, and I’ve died and gone to Scrabble Hell.

I glance at the seemingly innocuous game board on the table, now recognizing it for the torture device it really is, as Steph places seven tiles down.

“Cacique,” she says smugly, and I want to throttle her.

Ben makes an awful strangled noise. “That can’t possibly be a fucking word,” he says hotly, reaching for the Scrabble dictionary.

I should have known this was going to be bad when Steph first dug the dictionary from her bag.

“You’ll find it’s a Spanish word for ‘chief’, also spelled c-a-z-i-q-u-e-s. You’ll also find it puts me thirty points ahead, Benedict,” she smiles sweetly at Ben, who huffs angrily, slamming the dictionary back down.

“ _I_ find I’m much too close to committing homicide to be entirely comfortable continuing this game,” Nate says dryly, looking pointedly between the two of them.

“We could watch a film instead,” I say hopefully.

“No!” Ben and Steph shout at the same time, and I hold my hands up in surrender at the ferociousness on both of their faces.

“Calm yourselves, it was only a suggestion,” I say as I look down at my tiles, playing the first word I see.

“ _That?_ ” Steph scoffs incredulously. “Are you even trying?”

“You two are being competitive enough for the four of us, I think. Your go, Ben.”

“Jousted, double letter ‘J’,” he says, placing the last tile with a flourish and smiling smarmily at Steph. “And I do believe that puts me twenty points ahead.”

I’ve never wanted to slap him so badly.

Steph glares at Ben, her jaw clenched so tight I’m afraid she might crack a tooth. “Nate,” she grits out between her teeth. “Your go.”

Nate’s dramatic sigh turns into an evil smile as he begins placing tiles on the board. “Jukebox,” he says and picks up the empty tile pouch. “And we’ve just finished, Hallelujah!”

Ben silently tallies up the points from our unused letters, and tosses the notepad on the table when he’s finished. His expression is priceless as he stares at Nate. “You’ve won,” he says, and the disbelief in his voice is enough to send me over the edge.

“Your face! Oh my God,” I manage to squeeze out between my giggles. “I wish I had a camera.”

“Oh, shut up,” he says, but he’s smiling and giving my knee a gentle squeeze.

“What? Let me see,” Steph snatches up the notepad and stares at it for a long moment before looking back up, mouth hanging open. “You dickhead,” she says, punching Nate in the arm.

“Ouch! That hurt, woman! You’re like a fucking ox,” he grumbles, rubbing his arm.

“You big gay baby,” she says, hoisting herself off of the floor and stretching.

“That’s ‘King of Scrabble’ to you, filthy peasant,” Nate calls over his shoulder as he heads toward the kitchen.

I’m putting the Scrabble board away, seriously contemplating setting it on fire, when Nate strolls into the living room clutching four beer bottles. “A toast to my superior Scrabble abilities from all you _losers_ would be lovely,” he says as he hands out the bottles and plops down into the squashy chair next to the sofa.

Ben snorts from his spot on the sofa. “Superior! You got lucky, mate.”

“Luck or not, I’m relieved that Nate won,” I say, taking a seat next to Ben. “I was afraid there would be bloodshed if either of you did.”

“A little friendly competition never hurt anyone,” Steph pipes up from the armchair on the other side of the sofa.

“Friendly, my arse,” I say.

“Besides,” Steph continues. “Ben and I both know I would have beaten him.”

“Oh?” Ben raises an eyebrow in her direction. “How do you reckon?”

“I have an extensive vocabulary.”

Ben laughs. “Yet, the first word you played was ‘move’.”

“It’s all I could play!” Steph screeches. “My vocabulary is better than yours, at any rate.”

“Better,” Ben says and pauses. “Transcends, eclipses, exceeds.”

“We’re playing that game, are we?” Steph asks, moving forward to the edge of her seat.

“Oh my God, no more games!” I’m quite sure my request falls on deaf ears.

“Game: event, contest, match,” Steph replies, both confirming my suspicions and renewing my desire to throttle her.

Nate silently salutes me with his bottle, and I take a long swallow from mine. “Please, can we just watch a film?”

“Watch: eye, observe, follow,” Ben says.

I sigh, afraid to speak lest a list of synonyms follow my words, and silently move to the DVD player.

Two hours and a, thankfully mostly silent, film viewing later, Steph is unfolding her long legs from the armchair and yawning. “Come on, Scrabble King,” she says to Nate. “It’s late and I’ve got to drop you home.”

Twenty minutes after we say our goodbyes, made a bit longer than normal by Steph’s outburst of ‘goodbye: farewell, adieu, Godspeed’, we are already in bed, Ben’s body curled around mine.

His breathing is so slow and steady that I assume he’s already asleep.

“Adoration, fondness, affection,” he whispers into my neck, startling me. His hand runs slowly from my shoulder to my wrist, so gently it almost tickles.

“What?” I ask, twisting around to face him.

“Synonyms,” he says, with an expression I can’t quite read.

“I wasn’t aware you were still playing that game.”

“It isn’t a game,” he says, and I’m bewildered by the gravity he gives to the words.

“I’ve a feeling we’re not talking about the same thing.”

“I was thinking that some words are too significant to ever need synonyms. How the word itself is so powerful, any synonym one could use only falls flat.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, certain he’ll get to his point eventually. “Any particular words you had in mind?”

He nods, and I watch his Adam’s apple bob up and down as he swallows. My heart thuds loudly in my ears as I suddenly realize the meaning behind the expression I couldn’t place.

“I love you,” he says softly. His eyes tell me that it’s more than just an answer to my question.

The words hanging between us both terrify and elate me and I’m seized with a sudden, overwhelming urge to touch him – to physically anchor myself to him somehow. I reach up and rest a hand on his cheek. “I love you, too,” I say, marveling at how completely petrifying it is to say those words to him for the first time, even though I know the feeling is reciprocated.

He smiles that earth shattering smile of his – the one that never fails to make my day a thousand times better in an instant, or leave me breathless, or turn my brain into mush – the smile that I _love_ , and moves my hand from his cheek to his lips, pressing a kiss to my palm.

Scrabble may not be so bad, after all.


	4. The Madhouse (Part One)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would have finished this yesterday but I got distracted watching SDCC stuff...the Gollum impression over and over mainly :)

**May 2009**

A couple of things: one, I’m a complete and utter arsehole, and two, I am becoming aware of this when it is entirely too late to rectify the situation.

In my defense, the blame should lie mostly with my mother.

She phoned me last week to confirm, for the eight-hundredth time, that I would be attending my sister’s engagement party. I assured her that, yes, I would be there, and was milliseconds away from disconnecting the call when she said it. _Bring that boyfriend of yours, will you?_

I’m not sure if I believe in reincarnation. But, if I did, I would be the first to tell you that my mother was undeniably a con artist in a past life. Possibly a used car salesperson – although I think the two may be synonymous. One sentence – the _beginning_ of one sentence: _I think your Father, God rest his soul, would agree_ – and I inevitably do what she wants.

Which brings us full circle: I am a complete and utter arsehole.

I look to my right at Ben, sat in the driver’s seat, wholly unsuspecting of the insanity that awaits him – and I pity him.

Now, meeting my mother alone is not the problem. But, _honestly_ , what kind of girlfriend am I to subject him to my entire family – the whole lot of them; aunts, uncles, cousins, nieces, nephews, siblings – at once? As if that alone isn’t bad enough, I should add that he’s only been home from his latest project for four days. He should be relaxing. Instead, he gets… _this_.

The man should be terrified. _I’m_ terrified.

I direct Ben towards the familiar country lane, and as the bright yellow house, framed by the setting sun, comes into view, my insides twist into a hard knot. If it was too late to back out before, it most certainly is now.

He parks the car in the, _dear God_ , already fit to burst drive and cuts the engine, turning to face me. He smiles, and I’m impressed by how unfazed he seems by all of this – on the surface, at least. I can see the nervousness in his eyes and in how he twiddles the key fob.

“Before we go in,” I tell him, placing a hand over his fidgeting one. “I need to reiterate that they are all bat shit insane and ask you to please not hold it against me.”

He laughs and squeezes my hand. “You’re doing wonders to ease my nerves, darling.”

“Sorry, I’m not worried about your nerves. I’m focused on getting us both out of this alive,” I unbuckle the seat belt and open the door. “Welcome to the circus,” I say over the top of the car and gesture, arms wide, around us.

“Feeling a touch melodramatic today, are we?” He laughs, linking his hand in mine as we make our way to the path towards the door.

My retort is drowned out by an explosion of sound – the laughing and squealing of children, a heated voice I recognize, even at this distance, as my youngest brother’s, and the distinct wheezy cackle of Aunt Lorna – as the door swings open to reveal my mother, hand on her hip. I silently wish she had at least thought to remove the ridiculous Darth Vader chef’s apron – a gag gift from my brother four Christmases ago.

“Is that _really_ my daughter, or am I having a dream?” she calls, and I roll my eyes.

“Funny. Hi, Mum,” I say as we reach the porch, releasing Ben’s hand to hug her.

“Benedict, is it? Aren’t you the handsome one,” she says, letting loose of me to look at Ben. “It’s no wonder Nola has kept you well hidden.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Williams,” he smiles and offers his hand.

“Carrie, please,” she waves his hand away, pulling him into a hug. “Come in, come in! Don’t mind the noise, dear…bit of a row over the starters,” she explains to Ben as she marches us into the house.

Ben glances at me with mingled interest and amusement and I shrug. We enter the living room, my stomach clenching anew as I see most of my family, sans children – who are upstairs, judging by the screeching and stomping I would liken to a group of elephants – crowded into the space.

My eldest brother, stood in a group with his wife and my little sister, is the first to notice our entrance. “He does exist! I was beginning to think you made him up,” he laughs at his own joke and the drink in his hand sloshes around dangerously as he moves closer. _Well on his way to pissed, then_ , I think.

“Of course he does, you idiot,” I say, as Ben offers the hand not on my back. “Ben, this annoying twit is Lucas. Lucas, Benedict.”

“How do you cope with the verbal abuse, Benedict?”

Ben laughs. “No need to, usually. She’s a bear when she’s tired, though.”

“In Nola’s defense, you are an annoying twit,” my sister, bless her, says. “I’m Sadie, by the way.”

“My favorite sibling,” I stage whisper to Ben. “And this is Abby,” I gesture towards my sister-in-law.

 “I’m married to the annoying twit,” Abby adds with a wink and a nudge to her husband’s side.

Lucas gives her an exaggerated wounded look before turning back to Ben. “Do you drink scotch?” he asks, holding his glass up. “I’m your drinks man this evening.”

“You mean the _drunken_ man this evening,” I mutter, but Lucas ignores me.

“Absolutely,” Ben says. “The bearer of the scotch can’t possibly be an annoying twit.”

“I like you already,” Lucas says and tips his head in a come-with-me gesture.

Ben smiles and gives my waist a quick squeeze, nodding at Abby and Sadie before following Lucas.

Sadie’s eyes follow their disappearing backs before she rounds on me. “Christ, where’d you find him? Has he got a brother?” she asks me.

“If I wasn’t a married woman…” Abby adds with a significant look.

“Down girls,” I laugh, slapping Abby’s shoulder playfully. “No brother…sorry, Sade.”

“My luck,” Sadie sighs and raises her glass to take a sip, but takes it away from her lips when she starts laughing.

“What?” I look around for the source of her delight and come up empty handed.

“I’ve just thought,” she says, eyes shining with glee. “Aunt Lorna,” she says in explanation, and Abby barks out a laugh.

Memories of past boyfriends – mine, Sadie’s, and Kelsey’s – meeting Aunt Lorna flood to the forefront of my mind and I cringe. “Shit,” I say, and the two hyenas are at it again. “Maybe I should go find him, better if I’m there when it happens…”

“With a bum like that…” Sadie says appreciatively, and I consider gouging her eyes out for a moment, but think better of it.

“…she’ll have a field day,” Abby finishes the sentence, and I groan.

“Right, I’m going to find him. And stop looking at his arse!” I hiss at Sadie.

“Oh, come off it! You’d look, too,” she calls to my back as I walk away.

I quickly search the living room, stopping to give a quick hug and congratulations to my sister Kelsey and her fiancé Charlie. I promise to come back, explaining that I’m on a mission. I don’t see Lucas or Ben anywhere and decide to check the kitchen. I round the corner and hear the brand of loud chatter that only female voices are capable of, punctuated by the clang of pots and pans being banged about. I peak my head in to see my mother and aunts milling around the kitchen. I recognize the wild mess of blonde curls at the sink and breathe a sigh of relief; Aunt Lorna and no Ben in sight – excellent.

I creep back out towards the living room before they can see me, wondering where on Earth Lucas has dragged Ben off to. And then it hits me – outside, of course. Lucas smokes like a chimney when he drinks.

I step out into the darkening, chilly evening air of the backyard and am accosted by the delicious smell of burning tobacco. Uncle Scott, Lucas, my other brother Jamie, and two of my cousins – Chase and Cody – are all sitting around the table in the lit area of the garden, a huge bottle of scotch sat in the center. _Christ, they’ll all be sloshed,_ I think as I pick my way through the grass.

“Is this the He-Man Woman-Haters club, or can I join?” I ask, coming up behind Ben, who smiles up at me – soberly, I might add, thank God – as I place a hand on his shoulder.

“We were just regaling Ben here with tales from the childhood of Nola Williams,” Uncle Scott says, his booming laugh clueing me in to the kind of things they’ve been telling Ben.

“So I should find a hole to hide in for the next century is what you’re saying?” I ask.

“No, no, no, love…nothing to be ashamed of. I do wish you’d told me about your marriage to Simon Le Bon,” Ben laughs as he moves to stand and give up his seat for me.

I groan, feeling all the blood in my body rush to my face and push on his shoulder to keep him seated. “You had to start with Le Bon?” I ask Uncle Scott, who laughs again. “I was thirteen!”

“And already a criminal mastermind, forging marriage certificates with Sadie’s Crayolas,” Jamie interjects, looking entirely too amused for my taste. “You might make certain she hasn’t done yours already, Ben.”

“Fuck off, you cock,” I laugh and flip him off to make my point clear.

Half an hour later, I’m sitting on Ben’s lap, blissfully happy despite the continuous embarrassing stories. I put my contentedness down to the sips of Ben’s scotch and the resulting tipsy buzz in my head. I watch Ben laughing with this part of my family and the warm feeling intensifies. Although, I have to say, I think I may have overestimated his level of sobriety – I realized this when I had to move his hand away from my upper inner thigh.

Lucas is in the middle of a story about an exotic dancer that I’m trying very hard not to listen to when my Aunt Teresa’s voice comes floating from the door, calling us inside for dinner.

The warm, happy feeling immediately evaporates as we traipse our way inside, my thoughts drifting to the family Ben has yet to meet. And Aunt Lorna.

 _Here goes nothing_ , I think as I give Ben’s hand a tentative squeeze and he smiles down at me.

He’s definitely not sober.


	5. The Madhouse (Part Two)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry this took so long -- work has been ridiculous the past few weeks. Anyway, part two! I was originally only going to do this in two parts, but there is so much I want to do in this chapter and so many characters...I think three parts should do the trick, but who knows. Part three to come ASAP. Today, if I'm lucky.

The seven of us are the last to enter the dining room. As per custom with these large family gatherings, the dining table has been de-chaired and pushed against the wall, its only function now being that of a serving table. There are four draped folding tables, set for six each, crammed into the remaining space, surrounded by an eclectic mix of chairs.

No table is completely empty, and I quickly realize that the only two choices I have are a table with Uncle Chris – possibly the most mind numbingly boring person on the planet – or one headed by Aunt Lorna.

I make a beeline towards Uncle Chris, dragging Ben behind me, until a broad shoulder knocks into mine. I curse silently – audibly, too, by the look Ben gives me – as Chase and Cody rush past us to take the last two seats. The identical gleeful faces are proof enough for me that it was deliberate – no one, with the exception of Aunt Teresa, ever looks that happy to be sitting with Uncle Chris.

I love Aunt Lorna. No, really, I do. She’s blunt and loud and wild and is the most entertaining raconteur I know. She’s my number one choice in familial company – just not when I have a boyfriend in tow.

I reluctantly lead Ben to the table, wishing I had time to apologize in advance – or to tell him to bolt without being overheard. Don’t all great couples have this eerie connection – finishing each other’s thoughts and such? I decide that, yes, they do, and focus on trying to tell him telepathically. _I’m sooo sorry – fake being ill – you’re an actor, for fuck’s sake_ , I think repeatedly.

Ben scrunches his nose and narrows his eyes, fixing me with a look I can only describe as ‘slightly inebriated concern’ – a facial expression that, on any other day, would be endearing. At this moment, however, I find it maddening. “Alright, love?” he asks as we reach the table. "You look…”

“Constipated?” Lucas suggests, most unhelpfully, from his seat next to Abby. Ben giggles like a prepubescent girl – what is it with men and toilet humor?

Telepathy is obviously not an option. Stupid fucking scotch…screwing with our, presently unverified, psychic connection. Stupid fucking Lucas, giving Ben scotch. Stupid fucking Ben, drinking said scotch. Stupid fucking _me_ , bringing Ben here in the first place. Stupid fucking family, being insane. I open my mouth to speak – although, at this point, there’s nothing I can say – and hear Aunt Lorna’s voice instead of my own.

“I was just telling Lucas how appalling it is that my niece has neglected to introduce me properly, and here you turn up,” she cackles.

“Didn’t I? Must have slipped my mind, so many people, you know,” I lie. “Aunt Lorna, Benedict…”

“Ben is fine,” he says, reaching for her hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Bagged yourself a handsome one, Nola,” Aunt Lorna says. “If I were twenty years younger…then again, I’m like a fine wine…better with age,” she winks at Ben, giving him a sly smile. Ben laughs politely -- and nervously, definitely nervously. No telepathy needed to figure that one out.

“Right, we’re going to get our –” I gesture towards the table pushed against the wall, not bothering to finish my sentence before giving Ben a shove in that direction. “I’m really sorry,” I whisper as we reach the table with the food. “If I’d thought to get our food first I could have warned you.”

“Sorry for what?” Ben asks, as we both start filling our plates.

“Aunt Lorna.”

“It’s fine. She’s harmless,” he laughs. “Really,” he adds, seeing the skeptical look I give him. “You worry far too much.”

I snort in response.

“Always the lady. That’s why I love you,” he chuckles, placing his free hand on my lower back and guiding me back to our table.

“You might rethink that by the end of tonight. Into the trenches we go,” I say as we come nearer to the table.

“I’ve saved you the seat next to mine,” Aunt Lorna informs Ben happily. He obligingly takes it, winking at me as I take the seat in between his and Abby’s.

There is a beat of silence as we all focus on the food in front of us. I’m in the process of raising my fork to my mouth when Aunt Lorna speaks again.

“How’s the sex, Nola?” she asks nonchalantly.

For the second time tonight, I feel the entirety of my blood volume rush to my face and I’m extremely grateful that I didn’t have a mouthful of food or liquid on which to choke. Aunt Lorna cackles joyfully, the wheeziness in it evidence of her decades-long smoking habit. I can tell by the coughing to my left that Ben was obviously not so lucky – most likely mid-swallow when she posed the question.

“None of your business,” I say as politely and icily as possible over Abby’s quiet giggling and Lucas’ guffaws, shooting Aunt Lorna what I hope is a don’t-fuck-with-me look.

“I was only thinking, if you aren’t up to scratch for the boy…” She winks at Ben, who has finally recovered enough to offer a weak laugh.

“These potatoes look delicious,” I say much too loudly, desperate to change the subject. I hear Abby quietly humming a tune that sounds suspiciously like “Mrs. Robinson” and stomp hard on her foot under the table. “Did you try them yet, Aunt Lorna?” I continue, slightly less maniacally, but silently wishing they would glue her giant mouth shut if she would just take a damn bite.

“Delicious, indeed,” she says, raising an eyebrow and fixing me with a look that says she is not talking about potatoes.

I clear my throat and attempt a safer change of subject. “I’ve yet to say hello to my niece and nephew,” I say to Abby.

“Lily _had_ to sit with Chelsea, of course,” she rolls her eyes. “Eight, going on fourteen, that one. I’m sure they’ll both be nagging you to play after dinner.”

“Chelsea is Jamie’s eldest,” I clarify, apparently needlessly, for Ben’s sake as he nods.

“I remember. The six-year-old, yeah?” he asks and I nod.

“Do you like children, Ben?” Abby asks, dabbing her mouth with her napkin.

“Very much, yes,” Ben answers with a smile.

“Good,” Abby returns the smile. “My little monkey will probably be attached to you at the hip.”

“I look forward to it,” Ben says genuinely, and my heart melts a little – _okay_ , a lot.

“Ben,” Aunt Lorna says, effectively bringing the table’s attention back to her. “Did Nola ever tell you about my time in Hong Kong?”

I lift another potato to my mouth, happily resigning myself to listen to her wild stories of the past – thankful that there weren’t any sexual innuendos directed at my boyfriend.

For now, at least.


End file.
